Heart Of Hush Aftermath
by Encapuchada
Summary: Following Bruce Wayne’s death and Thomas Elliot’s release from his imprisonment at Wayne tower, Elliot gives up his guise as the corrupt villain Hush. Bewildered by the effort to adapt to an ordinary life, Elliot embarks upon a journey of self discovery.
1. Chapter 1

It was a warm summer day, and two childhood friends relaxed in a rowboat on a clear lake. The air was thick with humidity, making the lazy afternoon all the more enjoyable. There were no worries, no threats, it was just two friends, brothers, floating down an endless pathway to freedom. The last good day. The final peals of laughter rang from little Tommy's throat as he looked years of imprisonment and suffering right between the eyes. There was no doubt; they had been planning to hurt him from the start. He let his guard down when he should have been alert. When he should have been ready.

Thomas glanced into the splintered glass of a dingy mirror twenty-one years later and saw the same trapped look in his eyes. The face staring back at him wasn't his own. He ran the tips of his fingers over his scarred jaw line, to the narrow bridge of his nose, and across the plane of his titian hair. It seemed as though he were looking into the eyes of billionaire Bruce Wayne, but he was observing his own twisted soul. Those cold, steely pupils were still his. Hush smiled grimly. It took the tragedy of losing his parents to buy Wayne the life he had. It took a suture and a small handful of surgical tools in attempt make it into his own, but with his old adversary at rest, it was time to move on. The light overhead flickered brightly enough for him to finish the adjustments to his new face. He dragged the needle through seeping wounds and pulled the stitches together. Who was he now? He was not Bruce Wayne, and as terrifying as the realization was, he was no longer Hush.

With a violent jerk, he pulled the suture through his skin, and snipped the remaining strands with a blunt scissor. He could never be Thomas Elliot again. The memories of his helplessness and despair served as an apt reminder; He had been stripped of the Elliot family name as a young man, then of its fortune. Elliot was weak. Elliot was incapable. He had achieved his greatest ambitions through the gauzed vision of Hush. Hush had been everything. His turmoil, his purpose, his power, and his pleasure. He glared grudgingly at his own reflection for an instant. Hush went places he never would have ventured to. Yes, he was all that and more, but Batman had been his _inspiration. _

It was an impossibility. Batman's demise was to be orchestrated by him, and him alone. He was alive somewhere! He was exploring the pits of a foreign jungle, he was using an elaborate disguise to avoid publicity, but he was _not _dead. Bringing death upon the Bat was his _right_. A year after Thomas' reformation, everything had changed. Gotham's only hope lied in the Batman's proteges and their crumbling police force. Without Batman, they were nothing, without Batman, Hush was nobody. He was dead, and Gotham City screamed in its peril. On its blackest nights, even the vermin curled up and shuddered in fear.

Thomas didn't. He would persevere. A mere day had passed since Dick Grayson, Nightwing, had released him from a long winded imprisonment. For his seamless cooperation in his mental rehabilitation, he was granted the opportunity to start a new life. He was provided with a new name: Thomas Kane. He was even given a fresh set of clothes and a five month's head start on the rent to a downtown apartment. Thomas was insulted. If they had handed over what had been _stolen _from _him _he could have made it on his own two feet. No, Grayson told him, this is what Bruce would have wanted. Of course. Thomas _Elliot _had done monstrous things. He needed _earn _back what was once his. He left the same night, with the key to his new home, where the belongings bought by Bruce's remaining fortune were waiting for him. Instead, he found himself standing outside Sacred Heart Hospital's skeletal remnants. That's where he had been for the past several hours, in Sacred Heart, contemplating his next action. He'd spent years plotting against Bruce. He wondered now: Was it worth it? The thought was unsettling. Was it time to put it behind him and move on? Thomas made the choice when he made the first couple of alterations to his face. Later on, he took the anesthetic and other tools he needed to keep his face in good shape. He disabled the electricity in the facility, and made a silent vow to himself: He was never going to return to this place. Then he slipped out the back entrance and walked down toward second avenue. No. Never again.

Pushing Sacred Heart to the back of his mind, Thomas took the time to examine his new home. It was a three story brick building amidst a cluster of iron sky scrapers. A bit out of place, like himself. Hand on the doorknob, a wave of disgust washed over him as two scantily clad women walked by. Thomas saw now. His real punishment was having to live in the midst of hookers, junkies, and the other scum of Gotham's underbelly. Out of frustration, Thomas slammed his fist into the door's wooden frame. Startlingly, it swung open with ease, giving way to a large dingy lobby. The carpet he noted, was damp and weathering away, and there was only a single window in the corner which stood next to the door Thomas assumed lead to the landlord's apartment. He shut the front door quietly, and made his way up the stairwell.

The door to the second floor was wide open, revealing the dim interior of the apartment. Warm pools of yellow light flooded the steps. It was Gotham. A silent night in the slums of this city were a Godsend. Thomas chose to ignore the rampant cries of an upset child, and climb the next flight of stairs. Here he was met, and quite flustered by a woman smoking on the edge of the landing.

"Evening," she said. She was turned to the window, watching the neon signs flashing, and there was a sad, far off look in her eyes. Thomas studied her for a moment. She wore nothing but a black sequined dress that barely did any job of covering her thighs. Revolting. Women--no matter if they were prostitutes or psychologists, always chose to wear the most sloven attire.

When he didn't reply, she held out her hand.

"I'm Clarice Johnson," she announced with the friendly shake of her hand, "you don't need to remember that last part though, Mr. Johnson's long gone."

"My condolences," Thomas said, warily, taking his hand back and shoving it into the pocket of his coat.

"You must be our new neighbor," Clarice smiled and took a long drag of her cigarette, "You have a nice looking place for someone who's movin' into this part of town."

He narrowed his eyes. The filth had been snooping around.

"I only know that because I was given permission to fix it up a little. There's a leak in the ceiling but you'll find that's the only real problem you'll have with the place," she grinned again, though she herself looked limp and faded, "I tried to make it homey, y'know, so you'd be comfortable."

"Sensational."

She examined him for a moment, making Thomas himself uneasy.

"I knew you couldn't be from around here 'cause your furniture was so pretty," she went on, "look, you're even wearing one of those coats."

She was referring to the black overcoat he was wearing, which surprised him a little. He hadn't imagined that the world she came from was so incredibly unlike his own. This new awareness caused the creases to soften in his face considerably.

"That's better. You looked a little tense. Y'know, you wouldn't look so awful if you smiled a lil' more. I'd say you're more of the ruggedly handsome type, but don't worry, I don't do business with neighbors."

Her expression fell as the cries of the child elevated. In a few sudden movements she had put out the cigarette, closed the window, and darted to the other side of the hall. Within full light, Thomas realized she couldn't have been more than sixteen.

"I've gotta feed lil' Nelson, poor bastard. Life's tough, y'know, but we make it through," Clarice paused to push a strand of hair behind her ear, and smiled weakly, "what'd you say your name was?"

Thomas shook his head, dazed.

"Thomas."

Clarice wrinkled her nose, "Thomas? Yea, I think I'll call you Tommy."

After she'd closed and locked her door, Thomas staggered to his own apartment, bewildered. His mother had always told him that prostitutes, and all of their kind were lethargic and devilish. Yet Thomas was sure he hadn't met anyone as honest or as accepting as Clarice, though he hadn't known her for more than a minute. Overwhelmed by the previous affairs of his evening (it was well past one now) Thomas drew the curtains, and sank into the bed fully clothed. He didn't sleep at first, for his mind was swirling with the morals he had been brought up to believe in until they were mangled out of proportion. Eventually, he drifted to a strange dreamland where he his mother stood before him and screamed in anguish until her flesh rotted away. Bruce was alive and well, sitting beside an open grave.

Thomas leaned forward to see who was to be buried inside. It was himself, or his former self, Hush, covered in thorns and ashes. The rest was a jumble of bad memories and alarming images of rushing water. He had to tear himself from slumber to avoid drowning. He was thankful to find himself sitting upright in bed exactly how he was before he fell asleep. The hushed voices in his thoughts were cut short by his sudden arousal, and the room rang out in silence.

Thomas hoped to find a bit of liquor in the kitchen to sooth the pain in his new face and the emptiness in his heart. Hoped, but didn't expect. He closed the refrigerator door bitterly. Bruce could afford many things, even in death, but he sure as hell couldn't buy a man an atom of happiness. When his sudden burst of acrimony had waned to a thin veil of anguish, he began inspecting the apartment. The lights flickered on. It was made up of a miniscule amount of two rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. For a dump that was barely a quarter of the size of his previous live-ins, his old friend had certainly outdone himself. Shabby, albeit lavishly furnished. Lush seating, a television, and a few other provisions. His silent reformation had achieved _something _to say the least.

All apprehensions aside, Thomas finally undressed, delicately removing his coat and laying it out on the couch. He pulled his shirt over his head, exposing an array of recently healed lacerations and other flaws spread across a set of well defined muscles. It was the result of years of trauma and pain. Battle scars. They kept his memories fresh and his demons at bay. They calmed his mind. Nothing, however, could ease the suspicions he had of his new circumstance. He would sleep with a colt 45 pistol by his head mid the crack of the new dawn, and doubtlessly for the rest of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **I've got to get my ideas organized, but _something _is starting to come together, no?

_Realizations: _

The tickle of warmth upon his face was what woke him. Sunlight spilled through the curtains like a thick golden molasses. How long had he slept for? His head throbbed with pain when he finally peeled himself from bed, and he imagined he had only been at rest for a few hours at the most. Stooped at the edge of the mattress, Thomas squinched his eyes to see the time. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. Oh hell, it must have been the--no. He could sleep all day now, he remembered, if he wanted to. In fact, he couldn't think of anything else he would rather do. He turned on his side, facing the opposite direction of the window, and gently pulled the pillow over his eyes.

There was a light rap at the door. Thomas groaned. If he stayed quiet enough, they might leave. It was possible. The curtains fluttered as he waited. Another knock. They were not going to go away. He wrenched himself from the sheets and slid on the pair of pants he was wearing last night, buttoning them only as the door creaked open. It was the woman from before, this time, wearing a short white sweater and a metallic skirt that hugged her hips lightly. She smiled cheerfully, holding up a large red coffee pot, and pushed passed him before he had even invited her in. The door closed and the entire apartment quaked.

"Mornin', honey!" she chirped, wiggling her way into the kitchen. She set the coffee machine on the counter and went to the sink to fill it up with water. Soon, the small apartment was stirring with the tang of rich Italian coffee and Clarice's idle chattering. Thomas sat on a kitchen stool attentively, watching as she bustled between the stove top and the wooden cabinet. He found the airy movements of her body as she poured the coffee into two ceramic mugs comforting. It perplexed him, but he graciously accepted the steaming cup, thanking her with the simple nod of her head. Did those in similar situations always look out for each other? Was that the difference in nature between the wealthy and the deficit? That they helped one another? Thomas' head spun with unanswered questions. He felt as juvenile and clumsy as he'd felt when he'd first walked through the doors of his high school, but this—this was worse.

"You're not much for conversation are you?" Clarice prodded in her lazy southern droll. She perched herself across from him, on the counter, the entire lower half of her face vanishing behind the brim of the mug. She held a shapely leg out in front of her, dangling her toes above the tile. Her expression remained unchanged; she gazed at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"You realize that entering other people's homes barefooted is high unsanitary."

There, his counterattack. Aimed and fired. Clarice's large copper eyes flashed with mysterious excitement and the round, white slope of her face bloomed crimson.

"Oh!" She gasped slightly, and then chuckled to herself, tucking her foot behind her opposite leg. "I'm sorry! Sometimes I forget where I am. That other people aren't like the way I was raised up, y'know."

So do I, Thomas thought, wrapping his hands protectively around the mug's fading warmth. With a relatively dark aspect to his chiseled face, he studied her temporarily. She didn't catch on immediately, as she was still curiously regarding the scars that brushed across his forearms and his cheekbones.

"It's unhygienic, regardless," he said bluntly. Clarice's eyes darted between him and the window, as if wrenching herself from examining his past faults was unbearable.

"No matter," He pushed the mug to the other side of the table, the lighter tone in his voice indicating the change of subject, "Where are you from?"

"Atlanta," Clarice replied, a bit quietly now. She stared blankly into the coffee cup, sloshing its contents, cleared her throat and continued. "I never cared much for what doctors said. Once one told me I had better stop smokin', when I was carrying lil' Nelson. He said, 'Y'know what kind of affect that'll have on your unborn child, miss?'"

She paused for a moment, to set the coffee down, and laughed. "I told him, 'Sure thing Doc. My child will never have a weight problem. Also, my baby will be able to live in Pittsburgh, Detroit or L.A. and be able to handle it. My little guy will be immune to nuclear war!'"

A faint smile flickered across Thomas' face as she waved her hands around to make her point.

"He came out fine, Nelson did, just fatherless. Told my mother about it on the phone when it happened, she wasn't mad at me one bit for making the choice I made. We do what we can, we keep moving forward. An' that's what I live by. "

We keep moving forward. It left Thomas in a thoughtful state of mind for the rest of the day. The question was; where did he go from here? The claws of remorse and the pride that held his chest tightly had loosened just enough for him to consider getting a job. There was no argument that he felt lost inside of his own head. Uncertainty was not something he had to battle with before, as Hush: when his life and his purpose were confounded to one form, one obstacle. He had to grit his teeth and admit that now was the time to move on with the rest of the world, or be left behind in the dust, like so many of Arkham's patients, trapped forever, rotting away in their cells.

Arkham. In the dark, it seemed threatening. He shuddered at the thought, but perhaps it was there that he could find the answers to his troubles. It was there after all, where his former allies and adversaries would rest. Thomas laid his options in front of him. The death of Batman had truly taken its toll. Bruce had destroyed every aspect of his life thus far, yet now, there was nothing left to accomplish. Now, he played the waiting game.


End file.
